Fault
by PastSelf
Summary: "So… you're saying…" Bombur said, hesitating at each word. "I… it wasn't… my fault?" "It was never your fault," Bilbo said, looking as if this was a preposterous thought in itself. "Everyone was knocked over. You just happened to be getting out of the boat." Bombur let out a huff of a laugh. Not his fault. Not his fault. The words rang incredulously through his mind. Not his fault.


_A/N: Hey there! It's me, PastSelf. This is a Bilbo and Bombur friendship ficlet oneshot (special emphasis on friendship; no other kind of nada) that I hope you will enjoy. It's solidly bookverse, so I'm writing the characters exactly as I see them, but feel free to picture Bilbo as Martin Freeman if you want._

 _Post lots of comments. I love constructive criticism and I want to know what you think of this._

 _I own nothing._

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

The sun peered over the edge of the horizon and spread its beams tentatively toward the Lonely Mountain. It seemed to be in a sleepy sort of mood, for it didn't become any brighter as it crept slowly upward, nor did it warm the air much. The gray sky formed a halo around it, suppressing its light and giving the day a dreary cast. Overall, it promised to be a very bleak day.

On the northern side of the mountain, along one of the spurs where the light did not touch, the Company of Thorin slept. The upper camp, which was called The Doorstep by all, was completely still, not even a watchman awake to meet the morning. Down below in the lower camp, however, one lone figure stumbled out of the tent, shivering, and began to prod the dead embers of the fire.

Bombur held his hands out over the flickering flame as it ignited, embracing its warmth. His misty breath huffed out in clouds and dissipated on the frigid breeze. He pulled his cloak tighter and walked a little way away to sit on a nearby rock, pulling out his pipe and cleaning equipment.

It was unusual for Bombur to be up so early. Usually he could sleep anytime, anywhere, but sleep had fled about an hour ago and he had spent the time futilely trying to regain it. He had finally risen with the sun, stumbling out of his sleeping wraps, trying not to wake his brother, Bofur, who still slept in the tent.

Bombur began to scrape methodically at the inside of his pipe, trying to dislodge the sticky remains of the pipeweed that had been stuck there who-knew-how-long. _How long?_ he wondered to himself, frowning. It was a fairly new pipe. He had gotten it in Lake Town. The townspeople had practically given it to him. His old pipe had been taken by the elves when they threw him – well, shoved him, really – into their dungeon. How he was supposed to escape with an old pipe was beyond him, but they had confiscated it anyway. He liked that old pipe, he remembered with a grimace. Bifur had carved it himself out of pine. If only those deuced elves hadn't taken it.

Well, perhaps it was just as well, he reflected. If they hadn't confiscated it, it probably would have been broken in the barrel ride.

 _Drat that hobbit,_ he thought with a look that was half smile half grimace up at the upper camp. The barrel ride was one of the most unpleasantest experiences he had ever gone through. Even though Bilbo had chosen one of the largest barrels, Bombur had still been uncomfortably cramped. He was sure he had gone through at least half of the journey upside-down. Knocked unconscious several times, as well. Slept through a good deal of it, and that was a mercy. A good, hard, dreamless sleep.

Dreams. Bombur growled through his frozen beard and scraped his pipe more vengefully than before. Of the last few months, all he could remember was that blasted dream! What good was it? Why wouldn't it leave him alone?

And yet he couldn't stop looking for it, he admitted to himself. His work slowed somewhat and a smile crossed his plump face. That dream, so different, so much happier than reality. Lights in the darkened trees. A great big bonfire in the center of the clearing. The music, the dancing. And then all the tables filled with food! Even thought it was just a dream, Bombur could remember the aromas the roasted meats put off, the steam shimmering from the silver goblets.

And then he had woken. Bombur huffed a sigh into the late Autumn air, his hands stilling completely over their work. A frown puckered his brow as he tried his best to collect his memories before the river. He remembered the hobbit's hole pretty clearly. The meal was over, they had sung songs and played instruments, and Thorin had told Bilbo Baggins of their upcoming quest. He remembered Bilbo's face quite clearly, pinched with nervousness, flushed with agitation, and completely enraptured by Thorin's tale.

 _A strange choice for a burglar,_ he had thought. What had Gandalf been thinking of, choosing someone like that?

He had helped push some furniture to the side, Bilbo squeaking all the while not to damage it. _As if they would_ , Bombur snorted. The chairs and table were strangely crafted, not at all up to par with dwarven work, but he would never meaningfully scratch something made with such obvious care.

He reached inside his mind for more, but came up dry. Did he sleep on a couch, a bed, or the floor? He couldn't remember. He must have fallen asleep, for the next thing he remembered was waking up in the forest, hundreds of miles away. They told him he had slept for days, that he had been under an enchantment. That four months had passed.

Bombur had not wanted to believe them. He thought it might all be a joke or a trick, but all the evidence convinced him otherwise. Why would they be so solemn if it was a trick? How would their clothes become so ragged, or their cheeks so drawn with hunger?

The biggest shock was Bilbo. The soft, frightened hobbit from Bag End had disappeared in what had seemed to him like the space of a night. Instead there was a thinner, wiser hobbit looking at him, a short sword in his belt, grimed by months of travel, and the apologetic look as if he looked on a friend in trouble.

And Bombur could barely remember his name.

Bombur groaned softly as he tried his best to seam the rift. Bag End, then Mirkwood. Bag End, Mirkwood. Nothing in between except the dream. No foggy memories lurking in the shadows of his mind. It was as if someone had taken a clean, hot knife to his memory, taken out what was in between, and pressed the two sides together so they touched. The memories completely gone, taken out of his head altogether.

They had told him what had happened, of course, but he could hardly believe their tale. It all seemed so extraordinary, so fantastic it could hardly be believed. They had told him about the river, and that caused him the most pain of all, he reflected, leaning over and putting his chin on his hand. Unlike the rest of the journey with the goblins and eagles and the man who could turn into a bear at will, the enchanted river was extremely easy to picture in his mind. Easiest of all.

Thorin had divided up the boatloads so he was in the last, they had told him, and he had grumbled. _Very easy to believe_ , Bombur nodded to himself. But Thorin was the king, and if King Thorin said Bombur went last, then last Bombur would go. He grumbled all the way across. Also easy to believe.

"We were all on the other side," they had told him, "but when you were getting out you fell into the river. You were asleep by the time we got you to safety. You slept for six days and we had to carry you."

Bombur gritted his teeth. That part he could imagine as well. He would be getting out of the boat, muttering something about being last again. Maybe someone had even offered him a hand, but he had denied it, slapping it away. It didn't really matter. All that mattered was that something had happened and he had slipped. He had fallen the wrong way and dropped into the black, swirling water with a splash.

He wondered if the water had been cold or warm. He hoped it was cold. He hoped he hadn't succumbed to the enchantment without a fight.

And then sleep. Sleep for six days while the others became angrier toward him, while their irritated murmurs grew because he had been so clumsy as to fall into the water and burden them with his heavy form, which they would have traded for food any day.

 _How long would it have taken before they left me?_ Bombur wondered with an inwards wince. Hopefully someone would have protested when the suggestion was given – Bifur and Bofur and maybe even Bilbo would have, at least – but the others might have convinced them in the end, after the food ran out.

How horrible it would have been to wake up in the forest with no companions, no food, and no memories, Bombur thought with a shudder. The others had been irritated, true, but at least they had not abandoned him.

 _Although I might have deserved it_ , Bombur thought, resuming his pipe cleaning with a melancholy air. _After all, it was my fault I fell in. No one else's. My own deuced weight dragged me down and now I have to pay the price. Drat that river._ He gritted a hiss between his teeth as he scraped out a particularly unpleasant wad of pipeweed.

"You're up early."

Bombur looked up, startled. Bilbo's bare feet had padded so quietly on the stones he had not heard him come down from the upper camp, nor heard his footsteps approach.

"So are you," Bombur replied, turning back to his pipe. "And down in the lower camp, no less. What are you doing down here, Master Baggins?"

"Woke up early," replied Bilbo, sitting next to the corpulent dwarf on a slightly larger rock so they were more or less head level. "I saw you down here and thought I might as well keep you company."

"Bofur always said that I was bad company in the early morning," Bombur said with a smile, "but I am very much at your service, have you any need."

"None at the moment," Bilbo returned, staring off into the distance. "What were you thinking about?"

"How do you know I was thinking?"

"You work for a little bit, then you stop, then continue again when you think," said Bilbo. "Those must have been very deep thoughts you were contemplating just now. You stopped for quite a long time before starting up again."

"What do you think about up there?" deterred Bombur, turning his pipe upside-down and shaking out the loose bits. "I've seen you sit there on the cliff with your legs dangling over. What deep thoughts go on, then?"

"You lot told me sitting on the doorstep and thinking about how to get into the mountain was my job," shrugged Bilbo. "I was thinking."

"Not all the time," Bombur refuted, giving his pipe another scrape near the stem. "You can't be thinking about how to get into the mountain all the time."

Bilbo snorted a short laugh. "Usually that answer satisfies the others," he said.

"So," Bombur asked, looking at the hobbit from underneath his dark brows. "What is it you think about?"

Bilbo sighed. "Home," he said, looking west. He had a pinched, homesick look on his face that even Bombur could not deny. "Just… the Shire. Bag End. What I would be doing if I were there."

"You have a very nice home," Bombur said with a comforting nod. "I remember it."

"I would be getting out of bed," Bilbo continued wistfully, "and I'd be making myself a proper breakfast with eggs and bacon—"

"A slab of ham," suggested Bombur.

"And a nice cup of tea," finished Bilbo, "with plenty of milk and sugar, and biscuits beside."

Bombur leaned over with a groan. "Stop before my hunger eats me alive!" he moaned.

"Sorry," chuckled Bilbo.

Bombur leaned over to a nearby box and unwrapped some of Lake Town's traveling waybread. He took a bite from one and offered another to Bilbo. "Want some?"

"Cram?" Bilbo grimaced. "No thank you. I'm already tired of the stuff."

Bombur shrugged and ate a second piece. Bilbo sighed and took some anyway, making a face at its bland taste and grainy texture.

"You never answered my question," he mentioned, shutting the box and pushing it away before Bombur could take a fourth piece. "What were you thinking about?"

Bombur shrugged uneasily, eating his waybread slowly and avoiding eye contact with the hobbit. "Just trying to remember."

"Remember… what?"

"Before the river," he answered stiffly.

"Oh," Bilbo said. He was quiet for a few minutes. "Does it… does it really mean that much to you? The memories being gone, that is."

"Sometimes," answered Bombur with a sigh. "Sometimes it's not so bad. I think to myself, 'what if the memories are gone? I know what happened in between. My kin have told me, so what does it matter?' But then I wake up in the middle of the night, scrambling to find what I've lost, pouring over it again and again." He sighed even more deeply this time. "Always nothing. Nothing more."

"I'm sorry," Bilbo said sincerely.

"It's not your fault," Bombur replied.

"No," agreed Bilbo.

Bombur grunted and leaned over himself, tucking his pale green cloak around him more securely. It wasn't Bilbo's fault, it was true. Not Bilbo's, not even Thorin's. It was only—

"It was the deer's fault."

Bombur blinked and looked up at Bilbo, who looked back at him with a steady gaze as if he had not spoken those confusing words. "What?" Bombur asked after a few seconds of trying to figure out what was going on.

Bilbo looked just as confused. He gestured with his hands. "The deer. The… black stag Thorin shot? By the river? The—"

Bombur still looked blank. "What deer?"

Bilbo's eyes opened wide and he uttered a moan of realization. "We never told you! Oh, no! We never told you, did we?"

"Never told me what?" Bombur felt more anxious by the minute.

"About the deer! The deer that pushed you in!"

"The—what?" Bombur exclaimed, feeling like reality was shattering.

"When you were getting out of the boat, a deer ran by and jumped over the river," Bilbo explained hastily. "It knocked us all over, but you had one foot still in the boat and one on shore. It knocked you in. Thorin shot it, but the boat – erm – drifted away when you fell in and we couldn't go back for it. So, it really was the deer," he finished.

Bombur's head whirled. The voices in his head that had been crying, "Stupid, clumsy Bombur," had suddenly gained an uncertain ring. Here was an unknown element. Here was something different.

"So… you're saying…" Bombur said, hesitating at each word. "I… it wasn't… my fault?"

"It was never your fault," Bilbo said, looking as if this was a preposterous thought in itself. "Everyone was knocked over. You just happened to be getting out of the boat."

Bombur let out a huff of a laugh. Not his fault. Not his fault. The words rang incredulously through his mind. Not his fault.

"But then…" His brow wrinkled with another thought and he looked up sharply at the hobbit. "Why did nobody tell me?"

Bilbo shrugged, looking down at his hairy feet. "You had forgotten four months," he said. "We were filling you in as best we could, but it was only the bare bones of the story. We didn't give you much detail on any of it, and it seemed like something we could omit. It didn't seem to make much difference."

"It made all the difference in the world!" exclaimed Bombur, nearly rising from his place.

"I know, I know it did," Bilbo said guiltily, "and I'm very sorry."

Bombur settled himself again. "Why did you not tell me later, then?" he asked, calming somewhat.

"You never asked," said Bilbo. "We thought you might not want to talk about it. And, to be honest, many of the others didn't want to think about it either. I never carried you, being too short and all, but the others did. We all wished you had woken up sooner."

Bombur thought about this. True, he had never asked for details. He had thought that what they had said was all there was to hear. What use was it having the spike of truth rammed into his head again when once was bad enough? Why would he need to hear it with all the trimmings? If only he had known that there was more to the story.

They celebrated Bombur's newly cleaned pipe by sharing some pipeweed and blowing smoke rings off into the distance as the sun climbed higher. After a while of companionable silence, Bilbo stuffed his pipe back into his pocket and got to his feet.

"Well." Bilbo cleared his throat. "I bet some of the others will have woken up by now. I'm off to the upper camp. You haven't visited yet," he added, jerking a thumb at the ropes snaking up the cliffside. "Why not come up? The others will be glad to see you."

Bombur looked at the ropes, scrutinizing their thinness. He shook his head at last, putting his pipe back to his mouth. "I've told you all already, Master Baggins. Those ropes are too slender for my weight."

He made a point of not looking at Bilbo's face. Therefore, he could not see his expression when Bilbo answered, "You would never have said that before the river."

"Would I not?" Bombur's voice was low.

"No. You always tried to be just the same as all the other dwarves, sharing in the danger, hating to be last. Now…"

Bombur was silent.

"…It really wasn't your fault, you know," Bilbo added tentatively. "The river. Your memories. It wasn't you."

"I know that now," Bombur nodded heavily. He hoisted himself from his seat and faced Bilbo. The hobbit's face was concerned. Bombur appraised the cliff again. The cliff, too high. The ropes too thin. "Perhaps someday, Bilbo," said the dwarf. "I'm just not ready, yet."

Bilbo looked down in disappointment. "Right." And he turned away and began to scale the cliff.

After Bilbo had gone all the way to the top, Bombur still stared upward. He touched the ropes and gave them a sharp pull. They did not budge. Sighing, Bombur stumped away toward his rock again, holding his pipe in one hand.

So, he had changed, had he? Maybe. The desire to prove himself as one of the others had died when he fell. Even if it wasn't his fault, he had still complained when he had awakened, hadn't he? He had even tried to give up, lying down on the path. Bilbo was a fine fellow, but none of the others really wanted to see him in the upper camp. Not after all that he had put them through.

Bilbo looked down at Bombur as he stumped back to his rock and sat down. Bilbo sighed. Maybe if he had tried harder…

"Not coming up, is he?" remarked Thorin, coming up behind the hobbit and staring down at the round, hunched figure below.

Bilbo shook his head, not saying a word.

Thorin nodded. "Pity," he said. "Bifur misses his cousins. Both of them. The rest of us haven't gotten to see Bombur except from a distance, nowadays."

"I wish he would come and join us," sighed Bilbo. "We would help him; I think the ropes would hold."

"So do I," said Thorin, "but we mustn't pressure him."

"I'll try again in a couple days," Bilbo promised, turning away to join Thorin.

"We would appreciate it."

Down below, Bombur put aside his pipe and leaned against a warped tree, closing his eyes. Maybe he could fall asleep again, if he tried hard enough. Maybe he would dream.

 **The  
End**


End file.
